Chapter X
The two boys sprinted relentlessly toward their village, overwhelmed with horror and unable to speak. They glanced back nervously from time to time, half-expecting pursuit. Every stump that appeared in the path seemed a menacing figure, causing them to catch their breath; the barking of dogs near some outlying cottages spurred their flight even further.
“If we can just reach the old tannery before collapsing!” whispered Tom, gasping for air between words. “I can’t hold on much longer.”
Huckleberry could only respond with labored breathing, both boys focusing intently on reaching safety. Gradually, they gained ground until, finally, breathless and relieved, they burst through the open door of their destination and collapsed in the shadows beyond.
Eventually, as their racing hearts slowed, Tom whispered:
“Huck, what do you think will happen now?”
“If Doctor Robinson dies, I reckon there’ll be a hanging.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, Tom. It’s certain.”
Tom paused to consider, then said:
“Who’ll tell? Us?”
“What are you talking about? Suppose something happens and Injun Joe doesn’t hang? He’d kill us eventually if he didn’t—absolutely sure as we’re lying here now.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking, Huck.”
“If anyone tells, let Muff Potter do it, if he’s foolish enough. He’s usually drunk.”
Tom remained silent, deep in thought. After a moment, he whispered:
“Huck, Muff Potter doesn’t know anything about it. How could he?”
“What makes him not know?”
“He just got knocked out when Injun Joe did it. Do you think he saw anything? Or knew what happened?”
“Well, that’s true, Tom!”
“And besides—maybe that blow killed him too.”
“No, I doubt it, Tom. He was drunk; you could tell. And always is. My dad’s so drunk sometimes that even if someone hit him with a church steeple, he wouldn’t notice. Muff Potter’s the same way, so maybe this time it would do nothing to him sober—but if someone was completely sober, I guess such a blow might actually kill them.”
After another pause for thought, Tom said:
“Huck, you sure you can keep quiet?”
“We have to, Tom. You know that. If we talk and Injun Joe doesn’t hang, he’d kill us as easily as drowning two cats. We need to swear not to tell—swear to each other.”
“I agree. That’s the best approach. Should we hold hands and promise?”
“Not for something this serious. That’s fine for trivial things, especially with girls—they’d probably still blab if they got upset. But for something important like this, it needs to be more permanent—like writing—and blood.”
The idea delighted Tom—it was dark, fitting the ominous atmosphere perfectly. He picked up a clean pine shingle in the moonlight and extracted a tiny piece of “red keel” from his pocket. Using the moon’s light, he carefully wrote these lines:
“Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer swear they will keep mum about this.
They wish they may drop dead in their tracks if they ever tell.”
Huckleberry admired Tom’s writing skill and language. He considered pricking himself with a pin to seal the promise but Tom stopped him.
“Hold on! A pin’s brass, might have verdigris on it.”
“What’s verdigris?”
“It’s poison. Try it once—you’ll see why I don’t want that.”
So, they unwound thread from one of Tom’s needles and each pricked their thumb to extract a drop of blood. With effort, Tom signed his initials using his little finger as a pen. Then he showed Huckleberry how to sign an “H” and an “F,” completing the oath.
They buried the shingle with some solemn gestures and words, believing they had sealed their silence forever.
A figure stealthily entered through a break in the building’s far end, but went unnoticed by the boys.
“Tom,” whispered Huck, “does this mean we can never talk about it—ever?”
“Of course. No matter what happens, we must stay silent. We’d die if we broke our promise.”
“Yes, I believe that’s true.”
They continued to whisper quietly for a while until a dog began howling outside—a sound just ten feet away sent them into sudden fear.
“Which one of us is it?” gasped Huck.
“I don’t know—take a peek. Quick!”
“No, you, Tom!”
“I can’t—I’m too scared, Huck!”
“Please, Tom. It’s happening again!”
“Oh thank heavens! I recognize his voice—it’s Bull Harbison.”
“Phew—that’s good. I was terrified—it could’ve been any stray dog.”
The howling resumed and their hearts sank again.
“Oh no! That isn’t Bull Harbison!” whispered Huck. “Look, Tom!”
Tom, trembling with fear, peered through a crack. He barely managed to whisper:
“Huck, it’s definitely a stray dog.”
“Quick, Tom—quick! Who is it?”
“Both of us together—we’re close enough that he must mean both.”
“Oh, Tom, we’re doomed. I’m sure about my fate—I’ve been too wicked.”
“The irony!” gasped Tom. “This comes from skipping school and not doing what you’re told. If I get out this time, Sunday schools are next on my list!”
“You’re right; I’m worse than you, Tom! Lordy, if only I had half your chances.”
Tom choked back tears and whispered:
“Look, Huck—see? The dog’s turned his back to us!”
Huck looked, joy filling him.
“Yes, he did. Did he before?”
“Yes, but I never considered it. This is great—we’re safe now.”
The howling ceased, then Tom perked up.
“What’s that?” he whispered.
“Sounds like—like hogs grunting. No—it’s someone snoring, Tom.”
“That’s right! Where do you think it is, Huck?”
“I think it’s at the other end. It sounds like it. Pap used to sleep there sometimes with the pigs but, bless his soul, when he snores, everything shakes. Besides, I doubt he’ll ever return here.”
The boys’ adventurous spirits returned.
“Huck, are you brave enough if I lead?”
“I’m nervous, Tom. What if it’s Injun Joe?”
Tom felt a surge of fear but quickly found himself tempted again. The boys agreed to approach quietly, ready to run if the snoring stopped. Cautiously, they tiptoed closer, one behind the other. When they were just a few steps away, Tom accidentally stepped on a stick, snapping it loudly. The man stirred, moaned, and his face was illuminated by the moonlight—it was Muff Potter. The boys froze in terror, but when the man didn’t wake, they relaxed. They silently retreated through a gap in the broken siding, stopping a short distance away to whisper.
Suddenly, a long, mournful howl echoed through the night. They turned to see a strange dog standing near Potter, its nose pointed to the sky.
“Oh no, it’s him!” both boys whispered in unison.
“Tom, they say a stray dog was howling outside Johnny Miller’s house around midnight a couple of weeks ago. That same night, a whippoorwill perched on the banister and sang. Nobody’s dead there yet, though.”
“Yeah, I know. But didn’t Gracie Miller fall into the kitchen fire the following Saturday and get burned badly?”
“Sure, but she didn’t die. She’s even getting better now.”
“Just wait. She’s doomed, just like Muff Potter. That’s what people say, and they know about these things, Huck.”
The boys parted ways, lost in thought. When Tom finally climbed into his bedroom window, dawn was near. He undressed carefully and fell asleep, confident no one knew about his late-night adventure. He was unaware that Sid, though pretending to snore, had been awake for an hour.
The next morning, Tom awoke to find Sid already gone. The sunlight seemed later than usual. Alarmed, Tom hurried to dress, wondering why he hadn’t been woken up with the usual nagging. This silence filled him with dread. He rushed downstairs, feeling tired and uneasy. The family was still seated at the breakfast table, but they had finished eating. No one scolded him. Instead, they avoided his gaze, the solemn silence piercing Tom’s heart. He sat down, trying to appear cheerful, but his attempts fell flat, met with no smiles or responses. Resigned, he lapsed into silence, his spirits sinking.
After breakfast, his aunt pulled him aside. Tom almost felt hopeful, thinking a scolding or punishment was coming, but it didn’t. Instead, she wept, lamenting how he could break her heart, imploring him not to ruin himself and bring sorrow to her old age. The emotional weight was heavier than any punishment. Tom begged for forgiveness, promising to change, but her sadness remained. He left feeling the forgiveness was incomplete, the trust only faintly restored.
Too miserable to feel anger toward Sid, Tom didn’t notice Sid’s quick escape through the back gate. Gloomy, he trudged to school and accepted his punishment for skipping class with Joe Harper the day before, bearing it with a heart weighed down by greater troubles. He slumped at his desk, resting his head in his hands, staring at the wall with the hollow gaze of someone who had reached the limits of his suffering. His elbow pressed against something hard. After a long time, he shifted and picked it up with a sigh. Wrapped in paper, he slowly unrolled it. A deep, despondent sigh escaped him as he recognized it—it was his brass andiron knob.
This final disappointment crushed him completely.